


Teatime Revelations

by Cardinal_Daughter



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley Has Feelings (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, God Ships Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Happy Ending, M/M, Married Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Minor Angst, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 16:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cardinal_Daughter/pseuds/Cardinal_Daughter
Summary: How does God take Her tea?Aziraphale and Crowley entertain an unexpected guest, and get more than they bargained for from the encounter.





	Teatime Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t even know, man. I randomly thought of the question, “How does God take Her tea?” while in the shower a couple weeks back, and then- *gestures vaguely*- this happened. 
> 
> Apologies for any errors that were missed. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

**Teatime Revelations **

The smell of apples lures Crowley in from the garden. It’s a brisk autumn day, and despite the demon’s penchant for lazy Saturday mornings, something in the air had called out to Crowley. So after spending a few minutes kissing his husband, Crowley had wandered outside to his garden to tend to the varying plants and fruit trees that grow there, before the weather shifts into something unpleasant. 

“Something smells good,” he says by way of greeting. He toes off his rubber boots at the entryway of the back door, then moves barefoot to the kitchen sink to wash the dirt from his hands. Aziraphale hums in reply. 

“You picked all those apples yesterday, so I thought an apple pie might be lovely after dinner this evening,” he says as he carries an armful of dirty dishes to the sink. Crowley steps aside to allow Aziraphale to deposit them on the counter, then turns on the hot water to fill up the sink. “I may use the leftover apples for some apple cider,” Aziraphale muses aloud, “Or apple butter. I can’t decide which.” 

“Warm cider might be nice when the cold settles in,” Crowley remarks simply, fetching a towel and laying it on the opposite side so Aziraphale can pile the clean dishes onto it. “Speaking of which, I need to make a run to the village. Got a few plants in the greenhouse to re-pot, and I’m out of fertilizer.” 

“I’d offer to go with you, but I’ve just put the pie in.” 

“No worries,” Crowley says, moving behind Aziraphale to wrap his arms around him. He presses a kiss to the angel’s cheek, relishing in the warmth and desire that radiates off him in waves. “I’ll be back in a tick. Won’t even have time to miss me.” 

Aziraphale stops washing long enough to lean against Crowley, turning his head slightly in an open invitation for a kiss. As always, Crowley gives the angel exactly what he wants. “I always miss you when you aren’t with me.” 

“More incentive for me to hurry.” 

He kisses Aziraphale again, just because he can, and then retreats to the bedroom to change before heading out. He returns to the kitchen to kiss Aziraphale again, then again, and then they get pleasantly distracted with each other for a good ten minutes before Aziraphale pushes him away and with a breathless laugh telling Crowley to _begone_. 

With a look that promises more to come upon his return, Crowley leaves. From the kitchen Aziraphale can hear the roar of the Bentley’s engine coming to life, immediately followed by the sound of Freddie Mercury crooning about _ good ol’ fashioned lover boy’s. _

With a shake of his head, Aziraphale moves to dry the dishes. It would take a thought to put them all away, but Aziraphale has found he enjoys the process of doing mundane things the human way. Never mind that he and Crowley agree that using magic frivolously is probably unwise; there’s a certain pleasure in doing such tasks oneself. It cements the humanity of their new, post-Armageddon life, and it somehow adds to the domesticity of their quaint little cottage by the sea. 

Once the dishes are put away, Aziraphale checks on the pie. It’s coming along nicely, and he grins as he looks at the intricate weaved pattern he’d made for the crust. Despite his disinterest in technology, Pinterest has truly captivated him, and he thinks he might borrow Crowley’s laptop and look up some cider recipes. Something he can mix with brandy, perhaps. 

That idea has merit, and so he puts on a tea kettle, then takes a moment to recall where Crowley last left his laptop. Before he can commit to the idea of a brief Pinterest session (“brief” often becoming a four-to-five-hour nose dive into charming little cooking blogs where Aziraphale takes pleasure in reading the mile long stories-behind-the-recipe that others scroll past with annoyance) there’s a knock at the door. They don't often receive visitors, and so Aziraphale is immediately put on edge. He glances over to the cutlery drawer where a large carving knife rests inside, but opts against grabbing it. Should it come to it, he’ll use his angelic powers to fend off whatever potentially malicious force is on the other side of the door. 

After wiping his hands on the apron he’s wearing, he removes it and hangs it on a hook. Absently, he straightens his attire as he walks through the kitchen and into the living area to the front door. Slowly, he opens the door, and on the other side he is greeted by a woman he does not know, and yet instantly _ does._

She is older; looks perhaps to be in her late fifties. Her skin is a deep olive, with salt and pepper hair pulled back in an elegant bun at the nape of her neck. Crows feet surround her dark, sparkling eyes, and laugh lines trace their way down to a sharp chin, and a warm, mischievous smile parts her painted lips. 

Aziraphale stares wide-eyed for a long moment before uttering a helpless, “Oh, God.” 

The woman laughs softly, and somehow it sounds like thunder has just struck behind the cottage. “Hello, Aziraphale,” She says warmly, Her voice carrying like a crash of lightning in an ominous storm, and yet somehow still matronly and soft, as if she means to soothe Aziraphale from the storm she just created. “Won’t you invite me in,” She asks, in a tone that suggests She already knows whether he will or not. 

Considering who She is, Aziraphale supposes She must already know. 

Not knowing what else to do, he steps aside and motions Her inside with a sweep of his hand. She enters, past the front door that holds a lovely wreath of ranunculus and marigolds, and waits with all the patience of one who has existed for an eternity for Aziraphale to join her. 

Cautiously, the angel steps past her, fidgeting nervously as he debates on whether or not to pull the phone from his pocket and call Crowley for help. He has no idea why God is here, what She might want, and to say he is terrified is the understatement of the millennium. 

Not knowing what else to do, he defaults to his tried and true Englishman ways. “Tea?” He asks with a strained and only moderately pleasant smile. 

“Yes, please,” She says. 

Nodding once, Aziraphale hesitates only a moment, then goes to the kitchen where conveniently the kettle has just begun to whistle. As he takes the kettle, he wonders if it’s just good timing, or perhaps a miracle not of his own making. He pours two cups with a shaking hand, then mixes in honey and a dash of cream in his own cup before pausing as he stares at the other one. 

_ How does God take Her tea? _

He looks up and over to ask the question, but startles when he sees Her standing directly in front of him, Her smile soft yet oddly unnerving. “Three sugars, if you please,” She says and there’s laughter in Her voice, as if Aziraphale’s unease is a great source of amusement. She turns and walks back into the living area, leaving Aziraphale to prepare Her cup. 

God takes three sugars. What an odd thing to know. 

He places the cups on a tray and grabs a small plate of biscuits before joining God in the living area. Immediately he sees Her staring at the decorations above the hearth, and his blood runs cold. 

The cottage is the perfect mix of Aziraphale and Crowley. Old fashioned wallpaper lines the walls, made ironically chic by the sleek, modern furniture that fills the space. The couch is a black leather that might seem imposing if not for the red and cream tartan throw draped over the back. The walls are decorated with mementos of their own lives- vintage records of Crowley’s and first edition prints of Aziraphale’s hang in ornate shadow boxes. A large map of the world hangs on another wall, with color-coded thumb tacks sticking out all over: black for where Crowley has ventured, white for Aziraphale. Blue where they’ve both already been, and red for where they plan to go on future holidays. 

The hearth- that until a moment ago had not been lit- is home to an amusing array of decor as well. Vintage candlesticks flank a cheaply made, faux-vintage sign that says _ Bless This Mess _ (a gag gift from Crowley), as well as the skull from the first production of Hamlet. In the center of those, however, is what God’s attention is focused on, and Aziraphale swallows thickly as he watches Her stare at a selfie of himself and Crowley. 

It’s Aziraphale’s favorite piece in the whole room: a captured moment in which Aziraphale is kissing Crowley’s cheek as he laughs. There are a few other framed photos of the two of them scattered about the room- but this is the first one of them as husbands- and is therefore Aziraphale’s favorite. 

Now, however, Aziraphale wishes the photo weren’t there. He wishes many things in this room weren’t here, because for all that this room screams _ Aziraphale, _ it equally screams _ Crowley, _and is proof of their continued… _ relationship. _

It isn’t as if God needs a photo to confirm what Aziraphale suspects She’s known all along, but the physical evidence is still enough to make him squirm as if he were a killer and the murder weapon had just been uncovered. 

God touches the frame, elegantly manicured finger trailing down the side of the photo where Crowley is frozen in a moment of pure happiness, then turns around and takes a seat, motioning for Aziraphale to do the same. He takes the seat opposite God, handing Her Her cup. He watches warily as She sips it daintily. 

“This is a charming cottage,” She says after a moment. 

“Th- thank you…” Aziraphale manages to mutter. He feels utterly chastised, though he doesn’t know why. He refuses to believe he’s done anything wrong. 

“I confess,” She says as She glances around, “I certainly see how this place suits you, but I’m rather surprised your husband would call such a place home.” 

Aziraphale blinks, stunned to momentarily silence. Of _ course _ She knows. She’s _ God _. But to hear her acknowledge their union so casually is a bit jarring to hear. In order to give himself a moment to process everything that’s happening, Aziraphale eats a biscuit, chewing slowly as he tries to remain calm. 

“It was his idea,” Aziraphale says eventually, then amends, “Rather, it was a mutual decision to move to the country. He found the cottage. Thought it was charming. I suppose he likes the irony of a demon living in such a cozy little place.” 

He clamps his mouth shut at that, clueless as to why he’s _ volunteering _ such information. Though, he reasons, he doubts one can really volunteer or redact information from one such as God. He’s certain he isn’t telling Her anything She does not already know. But even still, he feels a little guilty, talking about Crowley over tea with the One who cast him out of Heaven. 

God’s lips curl up in an amused smile. “I’m sure he does.” 

Aziraphale hesitates a moment, then, finally can no longer contain his curiosity. With a trembling hand he sets his teacup down on the saucer, places that on the table that divides them, then rests his trembling hands on his lap, where he nervously fiddles with the gold wedding band on his finger. “I’m so sorry to be rude, but I have to ask: _ what exactly are you doing here?” _

God takes another sip of tea, then places Her cup on the table next to Aziraphale’s. “Just checking in.” 

“With… me?” 

“Not just you,” God says, that same unnervingly pleasant smile on her lips. “Crowley, too.” 

Unable to help himself, Aziraphale tenses. “I- I’m not sure-“ 

“Oh,” God waves a hand dismissively. “He’s going to be terribly upset. Don’t fuss too much when he does something intentionally blasphemous.” She laughs softly, as if remembering a rather funny joke. Probably whatever it is Crowley is going to say or do. 

“Doesn’t that bother you,” Aziraphale asks after a moment, “Knowing everything? Knowing how it will all play out?” 

“Oh, I can still be surprised,” God says with mirth as She leans back in Her chair as if She’s never been more comfortable. “I planned for the two of you,” She says, then eyes the cottage, gaze landing on another framed selfie of Aziraphale and Crowley, “But not like this.” 

Aziraphale chokes. “_What?!” _

“You were always supposed to love each other,” God says with an elegant shrug, “But I never imagined your love would blossom into…” Her gaze shifts to a photo of the two of them at the seaside, “Something so delightfully romantic.” She blinks, then her gaze is back onto Aziraphale, who quickly looks down at his lap. “It may come as a shock to you, Aziraphale, but there have been plenty of humans who have managed to surprise me over the millennia. Though, none more than Crowley and yourself.” 

Aziraphale hesitates. Then, “We aren’t human.” 

Gods nose wrinkles in amusement and Her head tilts to the side as She asks, “Aren’t you?”

Aziraphale stammers, and he has the sudden urge to check his wings. “Ah- well… that is-“ 

“You are ethereal,” God interrupts softly, and yet Her voice still manages to echo as if they were in an open cavern, “Still residing in my grace just as Crowley resides in the lack of it. But _ you, _ Aziraphale, helped stopped Armageddon. You chose the humans.” 

_ Over me_, he thinks he hears, but he can’t quite be certain. 

“I chose _ Crowley,” _Aziraphale corrects gently. “I mean,” he winces, “I chose the humans too, yes, but when it comes down to it… it’s… It’s Crowley, that I choose.” 

_ We’re on our own side. _

God nods, then looks away, and Her eyes are distant, as if She were seeing light years away from where they are seated. Wistfully, She murmurs, “He designed stars for me, once. Beautiful nebulas and galaxies.” She seems to shake Herself of Her reminiscing and looks back to Aziraphale. “He was brilliantly creative.” 

“He still _ is_,” Aziraphale says, and he can’t help the bite that’s in his words. God will not speak of his Crowley in the past tense. “He’s brilliant and wily and clever and lovely and-“ Aziraphale stops, blushing. If he’s not careful, he’ll make a fool of himself, gushing over his husband. 

God doesn’t seem to mind. In fact She just smiles. “I know. I made him that way.” 

“And then punished him for it,” Aziraphale utters sharply before realizing that he just _ sassed _ God and gulps, eyes going wide at the shock of his own words. 

God says nothing, just watches him. 

“Is that why you’re here,” Aziraphale asks after he’s taken a moment to overcome his own shock, “Is it my turn to Fall?” Before God can even answer, he looks Her directly in the eye for the first time, squaring his shoulders. “I’m not afraid, you know. But if I am to Fall, then I’ll thank you to at least wait until the apple pie is done so it doesn’t burn. Crowley was so looking forward to trying it later.” 

God laughs at that, a deep-bellied, beautiful thing that sounds like bells chiming and birds singing and waves crashing on the shore. “You didn’t Fall when you lied to Me about your sword,” She says as She wipes a tear from Her eye, “And you didn’t Fall when you sided with a _ demon _ and the _ Antichrist _ to stop the world from ending. Why would you Fall now, when you’re doing exactly what I created you to do?” 

“What am I doing?” He is a retired angel living on earth with his demon husband. He can’t even begin to fathom how he’s still doing God’s work. 

“Loving,” God says as if it were the simplest answer in the world. “You’re _ loving,_ Aziraphale. Of all my creations, I think perhaps none have loved so deeply as you.” She smiles softly, laughing at something unsaid, “Perhaps you love things I didn’t _ intend _ for you to love, nor in the _ way _ I intended you to love them-“ Books and sushi and the Ritz and Warlock and William Shakespeare’s plays and Crowley and his first edition Wilde’s all come to mind- “But you’re here, _ loving _ them all the same. Loving them enough to defy me.”

“I didn’t _ defy _ you,” Aziraphale argues softly, “I merely… was a conscientious objector to the Great Plan.” 

God smiles at that. “I suppose you would say you’re a lover, not a fighter. _ Despite _being explicitly made for the latter.” 

“I’ve never considered myself much of a fighter,” Aziraphale replies thoughtfully, “Though I haven’t loved Crowley half as well as he deserves.” 

“And yet the earth still stands and you are very near what the humans call a _ panic attack _ worrying about how Crowley will react when he sees Me. I can _ feel _ the worry, the protectiveness. The _ love_. It radiates off you like smoke from a fire.” 

“Can you blame me for wanting to protect him from you?” Aziraphale asks softly, and he means it with the utmost respect. He knows God knows this, so he doesn’t bother to assure Her. “Can you blame me for loving him so tremendously that I would do anything to keep him safe and happy?” 

God regards him for a long moment. “I _ could,” _ She tells him simply, “But I _ don't. _In fact, I admire your devotion. You’re more a fighter than I think you realize, and you don’t need a sword to make it so. That protectiveness is a fearsome thing to behold, and I confess I wonder how it might have served Me had you not given your heart to a demon instead.” 

“You don’t need protecting,” Aziraphale says simply, on edge but holding his ground all the same, “Crowley- well, he doesn’t _ need _ it either, I suppose- but-“ 

God holds up Her hand to silence him. “You don’t have to defend your choice to me, Aziraphale. I know I can be a bit tetchy-“ She gives him a _ look- “ _But I am not here to judge.” 

Before Aziraphale can question the reason for Her visit, the air shifts, and both God and Aziraphale glance toward the door where a distinctly demonic presence draws closer. The door opens wide, and Crowley enters, jacket flung over his shoulder. 

“Hey, Angel, I’m back,” Crowley says as he hangs up his jacket next to Aziraphale’s on the little rack just past the door. “Cleaned the store out of fertilizer, and ordered some more just to-“ 

He stops dead in his tracks, and despite the dark glasses obscuring his eyes, Aziraphale can see the shock, horror, and pain that passes over his face in rapid fire succession. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale says softly as he stands and moves to Crowley, “We have a visitor.” 

“Like _ fuck _ She’s a _ visitor,_” Crowley snarls before he stops, blinks, bites back the words that seemed ready to fly out in viscious attack. Instead he swallows thickly, and turns to look at Aziraphale, and their hands find each other’s with the ease of two who have done this a thousand times before. “_Angel… _”

Aziraphale steps closer to Crowley, turns away from God so he can whisper into Crowley’s ear, though he knows She already knows what he’s going to say, “Whatever you wish to do, my love. Tell me and it’s done.” 

Crowley looks at Aziraphale and though the angel can’t see his eyes, he sees the small, fleeting little hint of a smile that forms on the edge of Crowley’s lips and knows that his demon is alright; that he trusts him. 

Before either of them can act however, God stands and walks over to where they stand near the door. Crowley tenses and Aziraphale turns, holding Crowley’s hand tight in his own and moving so that his shoulder is in front of the demon’s, not standing in front of him exactly, but making it clear that he is protecting his husband. 

God smiles softly at the gesture, giving Aziraphale a look that in his mind he understands as: _ I told you so. _

Carefully, She moves close to Crowley, studying him for a long moment. He can’t meet her eyes, choosing instead to stare past her. Lifting one hand, God let’s Her palm rest on Crowley’s cheek. He flinches in instinct, but after a moment he almost sinks into the touch before remembering himself and jerking back, glaring at Her. 

“_Don’t_.” 

God doesn’t speak for a bit. Instead She merely looks at Crowley, studying him as if he were a new thing She’s not yet experienced; a novelty. 

“It’s good to see you, after so long,” She says at length. Crowley scoffs. 

“Yeah, it’s been a while. A while since you _ tossed me aside like yesterday’s garbage.” _

God _ tsks _ softly. ”I don’t expect you to understand My reasons for doing what I do,” She remarks, “My ways are-“ 

“If you say the _ I-word,” _ Crowley interrupts, “I’ll…” he flounders for a threat worthy of the Almighty, “Do something... _ horribly _ demonic.” 

God laughs again, a lovely, cacophonous sound. “Oh, my dear-“ She says fondly before Crowley jerks back and hisses. 

“_Don’t use that word,” _he snaps, “It’s not your word to use. Not at me.” 

“I suppose not,” God agrees, a small, sad smile on Her face, “I suppose you aren’t really _ My _anything, anymore.” 

“Not since you tossed me out of Heaven without so much as a _ mind the gap_.” He hates himself for it, but he feels a sob welling up within him, and he shuffles ever so slightly closer to Aziraphale, who lets go of his hand and wraps an arm around his waist, the other balled in a fist at his side.

Crowley looks down, ashamed of the tears that have welled up in his eyes. “All I ever did was ask questions,” he murmurs like a chastised child. “I just wanted to _ understand.” _

“And I love you for it,” God says softly, tenderly, and Crowley trembles at the feeling as it envelops him. “But consider: if you hadn’t Fallen, you might not be here with your husband on the other side of Armageddon.” 

“You don’t know that,” Crowley snaps, and the soothing tendrils of love that had been wrapping around him vanish like a burst bubble, “We might have met. He might have loved me.” 

“Of course I would have,” Aziraphale is quick to assure them both. “I’d love you no matter what form you took, my dear.” 

Crowley spares a glance at Aziraphale, heart swelling at his husband’s quick assurance. After spending six thousand years dancing around each other, they now take every opportunity to assure each other of their devotion. Actions over the centuries certainly speak volumes over a few simple words, but it’s lovely to hear, all the same. 

“See?” Crowley says, feeling emboldened with Aziraphale in his side, “You don’t know _ what _ Aziraphale and I are capable of.” 

It’s meant to be an insult- meant to be a dig at God. And while normally Aziraphale might sputter indignantly at something so blasphemous, he recalls the look on God’s face as She instructed him not to be too hard on his husband. So he says nothing. 

That same thoughtful look appears on God’s face again. “That’s the beauty of free will,” She says, “It means My beloved children can still surprise Me.” She considers for a moment. Then, “I think I like being surprised.” 

“Do you?” Crowley scoffs, “Because the last time I surprised You, I Fell from your grace.” 

God gives him a sad smile, then reaches out and takes the hand not clinging to Aziraphale’s. He flinches, but doesn’t resist, nor does he hold Her hand back. “You may have Fallen, Crowley; you may be a demon, but you never lost My love.”

“Oh,” he scoffs, “And how d’you figure _ that_?” 

“Look at what you’ve spent eleven years doing,” She gives him a knowing look, “Look at what you’ve done over the last six thousand years. You are full of love, Crowley, even if you can’t sense it. Fit to burst, in fact. Overflowing with it. For the world, for Aziraphale,” She pauses when the two of them spare a look at the other. Aziraphale flushes prettily and Crowley clears his throat in embarrassment.

“By all rights, it shouldn’t be possible,” God says, then grins mischievously, “But, well. Through Me, and all that. The point is, my precious one, you are a being of love, whether you know it or not. You are far more capable of feeling it, giving it, and accepting it than some of my… _ angelic _ children.” 

“So…” Aziraphale says cautiously, “Are you saying you… _ approve _of us?” 

God smirks. “Would it matter if I didn’t?” 

Aziraphale has the decency to look away as he mutters a soft, “Not really, Ma’am.” 

“I thought as much.” 

“So what, then?” Crowley asks suddenly, “You’re just here to say _ hello, no hard feelings about kicking you out, lovely cottage you have here?! _” 

“Perhaps not so ineloquently,” God says, “But yes. I know I am a bit late-“ and the thought of _ God _ being _ late _ to anything sounds like a blasphemous joke Aziraphale might smack Crowley’s arm for- “But I wanted to check in after that awful business with your so-called trials. Your accusers have been… reprimanded accordingly, and your former colleagues have been informed that any meddling on their part will be met with divine intervention- _ directly._” 

Crowley and Aziraphale both blink in shock. Crowley’s jaw hangs slack as he stares at God, and Aziraphale swallows thickly, not certain how to process the fact that God _ approves of their marriage_. 

Finally, Aziraphale gathers his wits about him and manages a soft, “Th-thank you.” After a moment he nudged Crowley, and the gesture is enough to help his brain reboot. He snaps his mouth shut, then quite sheepishly echos Azirapahale’s gratitude. 

Just then the oven timer beeps, pulling Aziraphale’s attention away from the scene before him as he glances back toward the kitchen. He doesn’t want to leave Crowley alone with God, but he doesn’t want his pie to burn. It’s a truly tortuous decision to have to make, but Crowley derails Aziraphale’s entire mental freakout with a shrug and a soft, “Angel made apple pie. Want a slice?” 

Aziraphale shoots Crowley a look as if to scream _ are you mad?! _but then God smirks and nods. 

“I’d love some.” 

With that, the three of them make their way to the kitchen. Aziraphale busies himself with getting the pie out and ensuring it’s done, and when he turns around he very nearly drops the whole thing as he watches Crowley pull out a chair for God, pushing it back toward the table once She takes a seat. Once more re-gathering his wits, Aziraphale places the pie on a cooling rack then brings it to the table before moving away to dig out plates, forks, a pie cutter, and a tub of vanilla bean ice cream that hadn’t been there until moments ago. He’s not sure which of them put it there. 

God leans over to inspect the pie. “How lovely,” She says as she looks at the intricate weaves and braids and leaves that make up the golden crust of the pie. “You did this?” 

“I did,” Aziraphale says proudly, then relents, “Pinterest helped.” 

“Pinterest,” God says thoughtfully, “Is that one of ours?” 

“I think it was the humans,” Aziraphale says as he returns to the table. 

God hums. “Lovely, clever humans,” she says with delight. “They take after their Mother, don’t they?” 

“Some more than others,” Crowley remarks, taking the pie cutter and pressing it in, creating equal slices all around. He removes it and moves to the sink, allowing Aziraphale to dish out three slices with a scoop of ice cream. He gives God Her serving first- it’s only polite after all- then Crowley, and then himself. The couple sits down and watch as God takes a delicate bite of apple pie, humming thoughtfully as the flavors awaken on Her tongue. She sighs contentedly, her eyes slipping closed for just a moment, as if She were experiencing the taste and texture for the first time. 

She looks at Aziraphale approvingly, then glances to Crowley as she says, “Delicious.” 

Crowley smirks, gives Aziraphale a pleased look, then takes a bite of his own slice. 

Once they finish, God insists on doing the dishes. Aziraphale protests- She is a _ guest _\- but God is not to be argued with, and so he moves to the living room to collect the tea things while God hums an inhuman melody as She scrubs plates. 

Crowley follows Aziraphale out. 

“I can’t believe you invited Her to _ stay,_” Aziraphale whispers. He isn’t upset, just shocked. 

“And miss the opportunity to feed Her pie made from my _ special _apples?” 

Aziraphale blinks, confused. “What... do you mean _ special_? What are _ special apples?” _

Crowley grins, and it’s the most demonic he’s looked in ages. “That tree, Angel,” he says, nearly _ giggly _ with how excited he is, “Was grown from the seeds of The Apple.” 

Aziraphale stares. Blinks. Breathes out slowly. “You’re telling me,” he whispers eventually, forcing himself to stay calm when he decidedly does not feel it, “I just fed _ God _ pie made from apples _ grown from the apple you used to tempt Eve?!” _

Crowley laughs. “Yup.” 

The angel’s pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation. He should have expected no less, really, and is ashamed that he didn’t see the mischief behind Crowley’s hospitality. “Oh my G- oh my Lo- _ Crowley!” _ He looks up sharply at his husband. “You never thought it pertinent to tell _ me _ that’s where those apples came from?!” 

Crowley shrugs. “Slipped my mind.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whispers heatedly, “I cannot believe you would-“ 

“I told you not to be too upset with him, darling one.” 

Aziraphale looks up and sees God leaning against the entryway, arms crossed and a smirk on Her face. It’s the kind of expression that, if they were human, Aziraphale might tease that he can see where Crowley gets the look from. 

“I am terribly sorry for my husband’s-“ he glares at Crowley- “Inhospitality.”

“Nonsense,” God waves a hand, “You’ve both been very accommodating. But I believe it is time for Me to take My leave.” 

She steps forward, and takes Aziraphale’s hands in Hers. He looks down at Her, and She smiles softly up at him. “You have served Me well these long years, Aziraphale, Angel of the Eastern Gate. But now I charge you with a new task.” 

“What’s that, Lord?” 

“Enjoy your retirement. Enjoy your marriage.” 

Aziraphale’s gaze drifts over to Crowley. He smiles. “I can do that.” 

“Good.” God presses a kiss to both of Aziraphale’s knuckles, then turns and holds out a hand for Crowley to take. Slowly, uncertainly, he does. 

“Crowley, Serpent of Eden, Tempter of Eve and of Christ.”

“That’s me.” 

God chuckles. “You are the most beautiful contradiction. A demon who loves and is loved in return. A demon who _ blesses _ . A demon who doesn’t quite fit his job description. All creatures are made in My image, though I find I don’t quite see Myself in some of them anymore. But _ you,” _She smiles, “I suppose it’s true what humans say: that the place where you find what you’re looking for is often in the last place you look.” 

“I don’t understand-“ 

“You may be a demon,” God says simply, “But that’s only the beginning of who you are. You defy logic, Crowley. I think,” she glances back at Aziraphale, communicates something to him wordlessly, causing him to smile tearfully before She turns back to Crowley, “Of all my creations- _ you _ are the one I’m most proud of.” 

A tremble runs through Crowley. He’s still wearing his sunglasses, but not even they can hide the tears that begin sliding down his cheeks. “_Why?” _

“Because you keep finding new ways to surprise Me,” She says simply, “And at My age, I find I like being surprised more and more.”

“You’re not… going to _ turn _ me into an angel or something, are you?” 

God shakes her head. “Why would I do that? You’re perfect just the way I made you.” 

With that, She leans up, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. He stands dumbfounded, watching as She moves to the door. She opens it, then turns and smiles at Aziraphale and Crowley. “This is a charming home you’ve made for yourselves,” She says before waving Her hand in a strange motion. They both feel a distinct magic fall over the cottage and themselves, and look at Her curiously. 

“Consider it a belated wedding gift,” She smiles, then blows them a kiss before taking a step back, onto the welcome mat. “Good day, my loves.” 

The door swings shut as if a burst of wind threw it forward. It hits the door jamb then swings open again, and God is gone. 

After a moment, Crowley moves forward to catch the door, closing it softly and locking it with a _ click. _Turning, he sags against it, staring at his husband in disbelief. 

“What... the _ fuck… _ just happened_?” _

Aziraphale doesn’t even reprimand him for the language. Instead he moves closer to his husband and, having the same thought, Crowley steps forward and they meet in a tight hug. 

“I think God just came for tea,” Aziraphale murmurs, and even though he experienced the whole thing, he finds the words ridiculous. 

“And to… _ bless _us?” Crowley questions, smacking his lips in slight distaste, the way he often does when sobering up. 

“I think so,” Aziraphale murmurs from where he’s buried his nose against the crook of Crowley’s neck, “She placed a protective sigil over the cottage. Against demonic _ and _ divine forces.” 

“Huh.” 

Aziraphale steps back a little, arms sliding down to hold Crowley’s hands in his own as he studies him closely. “Are you alright?” 

Crowley shakes his head and pulls one hand away to slide his sunglasses up into his hair before catching Aziraphale’s hand once more. “I… have no idea. Still processing. Not sure _ what _ to think.” 

Using their joined hands to pull him along, Aziraphale guides them both toward the couch. “Maybe some wine will help?” He offers after a moment. 

“Best to just bring the whole bottle,” Crowley says as he flops down onto the couch, tugging the tartan throw down to drape over his legs as he props his feet up on the table. As he settles, he watches Aziraphale retreat to the kitchen for a few moments before returning. The angel frowns at the sight and smacks Crowley’s feet to knock them off the table, then situates himself against his husband’s side. 

“So,” Aziraphale says with a sigh before taking a drink from the bottle. 

Crowley hums in agreement and takes the bottle from Aziraphale, taking a much bigger swig than his husband. “That was a thing.” 

“Certainly not how I expected my afternoon to go.” 

Crowley snorts and takes another drink. “Nope,” he says, popping the _ p_. “Was really hoping to find you in the kitchen wearing nothing _ but _ that ridiculous apron of yours,” he remarks playfully, “Oh well.” 

“I’m not going to bake naked,” Aziraphale says plainly. 

“Won’t be naked; you’d have the apron on.” 

Aziraphale huffs indignantly and takes the bottle from Crowley. “The answer is _ no._”

_”Fiiiiine.” _

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, then curls closer to Crowley. “Dear?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Did you _ really _ grow that tree from The Apple?” 

“Yup. Used some demonic miracles to speed up the process, but it’s from the apple that started it all.” 

“Would it be foolish to ask _ why?” _

Crowley takes another swig of wine, then leans forward to put the bottle on the table before kicking off his boots and adjusting so he can properly wrap his angel up in his arms. Aziraphale sighs contentedly as he settles against Crowley, draping one arm over Crowley as he snuggles close. Crowley presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple as he contemplates his answer. 

“Kept them at first ‘cause it served as a reminder of what I am,” he murmurs, “Not that I _ needed _reminding. But still.”

“Your own form of punishment, then?” 

Crowley shrugs. “Something like that.” 

“I hope you’re not still punishing yourself, my darling,” Aziraphale says softly, squeezing Crowley assuringly. “I know I told God I would love you no matter what form you took- and that remains true- but I have to admit I’m rather fond of you as you are.” 

“Sap,” Crowley grumbles as he kisses his husband’s temple again. “And no. ‘S’not a punishment anymore. It… became a… promise, of sorts.” 

“What sort of promise?” 

Crowley is silent for a long while. After a couple minutes Aziraphale assumes Crowley isn’t going to tell, and he isn’t going to press. But then, just as the angel decides to let the issue drop, Crowley speaks again. 

“I told myself I would plant them someday- I’d make a garden that would rival Eden- but _ only _ if I ever came to the realization that I was well and truly happy.” 

Aziraphale stills, then sits up, pulling out of Crowley’s embrace in order to turn and look at him properly. His eyes are shiny with tears, and he stares at his husband with disbelief and awe. 

Crowley sits up; catches Aziraphale’s hand. “You ‘member the day we agreed to buy this place?” 

“Vividly.” 

Crowley looks away. “I planted them immediately after you said yes.” 

Aziraphale gasps, one hand covering his mouth as he stares at Crowley with wide eyes. “You- _ really?” _

Crowley shrugs. “Yeah.” 

“Oh, _ Crowley-“ _

“Ah, ah,” Crowley replies, looking pointedly at his husband, “I love you, angel, but if you call me nice or, or _ sweet, _or _ romantic, _I’ll-“ 

He’s stopped by Aziraphale leaning over and pressing a delicate kiss against Crowley’s lips. Crowley melts instantly, one hand lifting to rest on Aziraphale’s cheek. Eventually Aziraphale backs away, and smirks knowingly at Crowley, who flushes and grumbles, “Hush, you.” 

Another kiss is exchanged, then Aziraphale stands, collects the wine bottle and heads toward the kitchen. Crowley follows, leaning against the doorframe as he watches Aziraphale place the pie under a pie dome. From the open window, Crowley can see the apple tree in the middle of the garden, lush and full of apples. The weather hasn’t yet turned, though the clouds in the distance hint at that a storm is coming very soon, and will probably last well into the evening. 

Stepping forward, Crowley plucks a knife from the knife block. He uses his free hand to slap Aziraphale’s ass as he moves past, earning him a disapproving tut from his husband. He exits out the back door into the garden, the grass soft and cool against his feet. He steps up to the tree and studies the fruit for a few moments before he plucks one from a low-hanging branch and cuts it in half. He pockets the knife then turns, hiding a smile behind his half of apple as Aziraphale approaches him, eyes bright and warm. 

Crowley extends his hand, offering his husband the other half of the apple. “Fancy a bite?” He asks as he chews his own. 

Aziraphale huffs but takes the half anyway. “You think you’re so clever.” 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Mm hmm,” Aziraphale murmurs as he takes a bite of his half. His eyes drift closed as the tart crispiness of the apple settles against his tongue. “Oh my. That’s delicious.” 

“It’s forbidden. Forbidden fruit _ has _ to be delicious, to make it worthwhile.” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Aziraphale says as he steps forward, sliding his free hand into Crowley’s long curls to pull him closer, kissing him softly. “You aren’t forbidden and you are the most lovely thing I’ve ever tasted.” He bookends the remark with another kiss, swallowing Crowley’s groan. 

“_Angel.” _

Aziraphale’s next remark is cut off by a crack of thunder and a sudden downpour of rain. As the two of them rush back into the house, they swear they can hear laughter in the air behind them. 

**Author's Note:**

> Do I just want Crowley to be happy? Yes. 
> 
> Am I projecting my struggle with my own faith onto said demon and giving him the closure I so desperately want? Also yes. 
> 
> Other than that, as esteemed philosopher Grace Helbig says: I don’t know.


End file.
